


Miles Morales: Miami's Spider-Man

by KangAyeJay



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Comic, Crime Fighting, Español | Spanish, Fantasy, Gangsters, Gen, Haiti, Heroes & Heroines, Marvel 616 - Freeform, Miami, Mythology - Freeform, Science Fiction, Superheroes, Teenagers, Ultimate Spider-Man - Freeform, Villains, caribbean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-26 01:03:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16209419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KangAyeJay/pseuds/KangAyeJay
Summary: The Magic City is no holiday away for Miles Morales. Be it hot and dangerous girls, savvy and deadly gangsters, dark and terrible monsters, or powerful and brutal villains, Miles has to adapt to face these new challenges among others. At the same time, Miles dreams of becoming the greatest Spider-Man ever. This is Miami's Spider-Man.





	1. Welcome to Miami

Miles Morales sang the lyrics to Despacito blasting from a rumbling Aston Martin Vantage beneath his high-view perch. The hotel wasn't too tall, none of them were at South Beach compared to the monoliths in New York, so his hearing picked out the distinctions of vocals and noises easily. The song, played through boisterous, top-notch speakers, rubbed elbows with other musical blares in the area. It did so without jumbling into a distorted cacophony, as if Miami's residents could be blocks away, playing tonally, lyrically, fashionably different music, and meld it together like a saucy, spicy blend.

This place was amazing, but it was way too different. Far too different for the likes of the young crime fighter experienced in the high-speed nature of the NYC. Unlike the Big Apple, the Magic City hustled and jived at a slower pace, a pace that crawled over Miles's nerves for the past two weeks as he got acquainted with his new environment. A pace his mother, Rio Morales, thought would be good for him, pulling him away from the flights and furies of New York. And even while Miles complained, argued, and even shouted, switching from English to Spanish, and back, his mother held her ground. His father, Jefferson Davis, backed her up.

And now Miles held oversight on Collins Ave near Lincoln Rd knowing this wasn't a place a teenager should mingle on a Saturday night. But as Spider-Man - one of the Spider-Men - he should have enough authority to go as he pleased if necessary, right? Right? Doubt it. Let's be honest, if it was the OG Spider-Man, maybe. People still appreciated him like an urban legend down here for dealing with The Lizard a while back, but Miles's Spider-Man was still a nobody. Lost in the shuffle among the other Spider-People, and that sentiment was enough to put a damper on his mood, pushing away the festive atmosphere surrounding him like Miami's thicker-than-cheese humidity.

While readjusting his suit, which had trapped his steaming sweat, a ding sounded in his right ear. Miles tapped his finger at the spot. From above the earlobe a tiny projector emitted a holographic image the size of a laptop screen in front of his face. Ganke Lee's head filled it to the edges. "Dude!"

"I'm not playing League tonight, Gank-man," said Miles, although he doubted the conversation would start with League of Legends.

"But I need your Jungler skills, man."

Miles screwed his mouth to the left, drawing lines on his mask in the same direction. He flicked his gaze down to Collins Ave as a bridal party of reveling Latinas spilled out of a yellow limousine. They sounded Guatemalan, or somewhere from the central Americas.

Ganke moaned like he was on a Broadway play in someone's backyard. "Okay, okay, I'm ready to quit this team anyway. Three straight matches of the highest toxicity."

"Did you get the Flying Spiders going?" asked Miles, eyes centering on the screen.

"The program is ready for testing on the hardware." Ganke rubbed his thumb over his cheek, a tendency of his when he wasn't certain on his own answer, but he wasn't exactly lying. Miles imagined he finished the program just today but hadn't ran sufficient tests of the OS, which meant failure was likely while on the field. When Ganke dropped his hand, he leaned forward, looking determined to turn the tables on Miles.

Miles didn't give him the chance. "I've finished rework on the web-fluid formula, redesigned the web-shooters, and I got a drone ready right here." His hand patted a duffel bag he had hauled with him all the way to South Beach. Since they were on the subject, might as well unzip the bag and take out the machine. Just another quad-copter with a decent camera with night vision optics. Miles had to spend most of his savings from his part-time jobs as a temp blogger in New York and his current job in landscaping - mowing lawns - in his Aunt's business. But it should be worth it. It should help him get closer to the goal.

"Geez, Miles, could you swing back up to New York and help on the around the world puzzle? Sounds like you don't have enough to do."

Miles chuckled. "Miami's slow, man."

"Maybe that's a good thing," said Ganke, which strikingly sounded like a parroted version of Miles's mom, reassuring him over an abrupt and radical change. Ganke winced as if what tumbled out of his mouth were heavy stones striking down a quiet mountain side.

Miles eased out a withheld breath. "I'm going to make good on this. Okay? Really, I am. Told you I had a realization before I left, didn't I?"

"Teenagers don't have realizations, we have observations of life screwing us."

"Point is, Ganke, maybe I can be my own Spider-Man here."

Ganke smacked both hands over his face and dragged them down, catching and tugging his eyelids slightly under his fingers tips. "But Miles, you are your own Spider-Man."

Miles shirked up his shoulders. "Okay, are we running this thing or what?"

"Already started, turn it on."

Miles switched off the video feed and flipped the switch on the drone. He stood back a couple feet while the blades whirred to action. It elevated, spun around, and examined him for a few seconds, before drifting in a lazy circle around him, stopping at the same spot where it started. It hovered and watched him like an obedient pet.

Miles stared, holding back the rising elation like a volcanic hole full of bubbling water ready to geyser its way up. Couldn't let his joy go free until he was certain the thing operated as designed, so he started moving. The hotel's rooftop curved and rounded with a dome in the middle surrounded by a ring of AC units. On the edge a metal railing closed off the rooftop from fifteen stories of open air.

It was an easy enough course to skip and hop around, changing elevations and speed. Started off slow at first, until he was bounding from the railing to the middle in one quick step. The drone didn't lose track of him, not even when he lunged from one corner of the rooftop to the other. It trailed, staying close no matter what.

"FS-Command: Stay." Miles backed away, his hand running over the chassis of an AC unit. The metal trembled beneath his gloved hand. The drone didn't follow, only turning to watch him go. Even after breaking line of sight behind the dome, the drone stayed at the demanded position. Miles reached up to his ear, opposite of the one that controlled the holographic call, and pressed a button behind it. "FS-Command: To me." The drone swooped in and stopped nearby. "FS-Command: Return to previous stay." The drone fled. Miles went after it and found it at the spot he had originally told it to stay. He shouted in joy, pumping a fist into the air. "Ganke, your coding is out of this word, dude."

Ganke's chuckle started out nervously before building into confidence. Then the airy and fun arrogance set in. "Well, I am a genius."

"Albert Einstein would look like an idiot next to you," said Miles as Ganke's laugh, a track on a sitcom weaved between a couple snorts, hooted back through the earpiece.

Ganke had been Miles's best bud for a couple years now, since he had managed to get accepted into Brooklyn Vision Academy. And despite the current range between them - 1,283 miles by the way - Ganke insisted they continued their friendship and partnership as a two-man team taking the fight to crime. That's an awesome way to overcome distance and try on new tactics. One glance at the drone running on the Flying Spiders program gave Miles a sense of comfort.

Maybe things will work out after all.

That blissful glow circling his positive thoughts hurtled from the heavens to the depths of reality when the drone dropped without being prompted. It pitched heavily to one side, clearing the railing, and dove for the top of a palm tree many stories below.

Oh no you don't!

Before it even got a couple feet near the broad leaves, Miles rotated his arm and thrust it at the machine - thwip - and caught the drone's tail in webbing. One yank of the arm and the adhesive tether pulled tight and bungee-corded it up to the rooftop. His other hand snatched the drone out of the air, which would have been an impressive feat if Miles was a normal human. Instead, he was a teenager with the strength and abilities of a spider and some.

"You see, that's why I keep three drawing boards," said Ganke, his voice starting off flat until it dialed down to an ashamed whisper.

Miles let out a one note laugh. "Don't worry about it. You'll figure it out soon."

After turning off the drone and collapsing its rotatory wings, he aimed a tiny nozzle from the top of his wrist at the webbing attached to the carbon fiber frame. Some of his spare time was put to good use while getting accustomed to his new home, new family, new life, new everything. He played around with the web-shooters and the web formula while using Peter's notes for references. Through some of Miles's own research on the web formula, which required sketchy lab equipment he found in backyard sales on the internet, he created a web-fluid solvent. Then he redesigned the web-shooters to include the solvent as well as another nifty gadgetry. Thus, the end of the adhesive web attached to the drone dissolved after a few puffs. Seemed like an unnecessary accessory since the webbing dissolved over time.

But nothing's unnecessary if you know when to use it for the right reason, right, Peter?

Ganke talked into Miles's train of thought like a person stumbling into their neighbor's yard. "So, what's the plan for tonight, dude? From what an uncle told me once, there's a lot of fun and trouble to find in South Beach. And cops. Lots of cops."

"Yet there's been disappearances, and that's more trouble than fun." Miles returned to his perch, observing the people below.

"I also hear that place is, like, infamous for trafficking. And not in just drugs, either. You know what I'm saying." Ganke's voice shivered like a leafless branch stressed by wintry winds. "I was watching some crime documentaries on Miami, and dude, that place isn't all music and fun like Will Smith made it sound. Yeah, sure, Welcome to Miami until you get caught in shootouts or get eaten by an alligator. I wouldn't want to be a girl out there, either. Their families must be terrified for them if they're disappearing."

"It's dudes with this case."

"Dudes?"

"Someone's kidnapping groups of men age eighteen to mid-twenty. Every night for the past week, too. It's still hush-hush, no larger than street and cop-level. But there's been reports of multiple disappearances over social media. All tourists in South Beach."

"If it isn't big time news, how'd you learned of it?" asked Ganke in one excited rush of a breath.

Miles shrugged, which was a wasted expression since Ganke didn't see it, the video portion of the chat was still off. He left it that way, ignoring the question while focusing more on the street.

An altercation between two aggressive parties sparked and grew into a heated shouting match. In both parties was a person gesturing in a way that alarmed Miles's sensibilities. He predicted a deadly fight on the horizon if the argument continued to ascend past face-to-face posturing. "Yo, Ganke, talk later. Got to break up a fight before it gets bad."

"Alright dude, go out there and be the best Spider-Man ever."

Smirking, Miles stuffed down a chuckle as he tapped the button to end the call. Ganke may or may not know it, but Miles more than appreciated that last comment from him. A part of him still felt silly for making such a bold declaration to his best friend the day before he departed for Miami. It almost seemed like a spurn of the moment claim, but when he said it aloud, it clicked like the perfect key for a certain lock, opening something new and dangerous inside of Miles.

Ambition.

And as he nursed such a strong desire, it covered him like a blanket, buzzing his skin, warming his soul, applying subtle changes to him that were unprecedented of his usual nature. The group of people he was dropping on were about to get a taste of it, in fact.

A quick fall into a palm tree followed by a kick-off and a back flip landed him on the hood of a parked sedan. He triggered the car alarm on purpose to snatch the attention of the dozen people seconds from brawling in front of a ritzy restaurant. Bubbling champagne and fresh fish wafted from the kitchen inside while meeting the thick and lingering scent of weed in the hostile crowd.

He wasn't certain on the reason for the beef, or how people could be high and angry, but he dropped onto leveled ground with an authoritative swagger. He raised his voice, backing it with as much bass as he could, as he spoke over the alarm. "I already know what you're thinking. And it's true. I'm Spider-Man. And it's your lucky day, cause I'll sign autographs here and now if you can do me one favor. Chill. Chill out or get webbed."


	2. Miami's Spidey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You ever wonder if heroes get days where they be searching for crime, and not find any?

Miles took his civil duties as a masked vigilante with some seriousness mixed with some fun, and sometimes the job wasn't always glamorous or amazing. You'd think fighting a dozen rough and tumble guys, half of them being drunk Australians, the other half just as drunk Cubans, would get the heart bumping faster. But Miles had to stifle a yawn as he widened his stance, his feet gripping the concrete with his super spider-like electro-bonds and atomic-levels increase of coefficient friction – the stick to his wall crawling – to hold him in place. So, when the first Aussie took a swing, because they thought it would be fun to knock out a Spider-Man impersonator, the man struck the palm of Miles's outstretched hand.

Miles's arm didn't budge. His body didn't budge either despite his 160 pounds compared to a guy who had 60 pounds more on him. Miles was practically a living wall and the guy reeled back with a hurt, if not fractured, hand. Maybe Miles should have gave in just a bit, but it was too late to reconsider as the Aussies and Cubans band together against him.

"What the hell guys, Brad, Fidel, James, Mateo, can't we all be friends?" asked Miles as he bent backward and watched a first swerved through air, missing by inches. He backpedaled a couple steps into a man ready to catch him in a bear hug. He didn't even need spider senses to juke from underneath the guy and give him a quick clap on the back.

Strings of electricity crawled over the spot Miles had touched, and as the man turned, he yelped, seizing on the spot, all his muscles convulsing as his nervous system faltered under the burden of an electric shock – Miles's venom blast. It was a minor-dosage. Real small, he swore. But the guy fell like someone cut the strings to his life, and everyone in the angry mob stopped, looked at the dude on the ground, and started to look like they could think for once.

"There's no way, bro. You can't be Spider-Man. You're another clone, right?" asked one of the Cubans as he turned back to his friends and started spitting Spanish like he was trying to get his words to sprint. Not only did it sound way different than any New Yorker Spanish Miles knew, it was far from what he learned from speaking with his mom. He barely caught on to it and decided to let it go.

"No, I'm not a clone." And just for good measure he switched to Spanish. "Un hombre araña diferente, pero soy el hombre araña."

"Mates, I think he said he's Spider-Man," said one of the Aussies. "Screw us, that's Spider-Man."

"It's almost as if you just grew a brain, man, welcome to the thinking world." Miles shook his head, growing highly aware of the growing audience showing up around the site of the altercation. It swelled so fast the street got blocked and cars trying to drive through had to stop, relying on their honks. Phones raised up, shining their lights as they filmed him.

The Aussies broke into a laugh. One of them poked at their friend on the ground who happened to be okay except for a wet stain over his board shorts. He got helped up while another Aussie looked over the guy who had his hand hurt trying to punch Miles. But the sound of them made it seem like it was all good fun.

The Cubans straightened themselves out and decided to depart the scene, not liking the added attention apparently. One of them snapped a quick selfie with Miles in the background before following his friends.

Underneath the mask Miles's eyebrows quirked. That had to be one of his shortest fights to date, and with that being the case, he wished it had ended without him having to do much. It's better to solve problems peacefully than breaking into a fight, but that didn't mean Miles wouldn't throw down of course. He just didn't see the point in hitting normal people who could barely handle his super powers.

With great power… yeah.

"Yo, man, Spider-Man," called a man that sounded like the everyday heckler, but with a Miami accent. The audience grew even larger. Men and women alike started standing on nearby cars, recording Miles. This was the first time he appeared in Miami and didn't flee the scene right away. Out of pure whim, Miles turned to face the guy who seemed to be a regular urban black dude. "What got you down here in Miami for? What? Doctor Doom gonna come down here to smash the clubs?" The guy had an air for humor and the people laughed, gossiped, waved, and hooted.

Miles ignored everyone except for the original heckler. Even the Aussies faded to the background as he thought about his answer. He wasn't the savviest media user, but after working as a temp blogger, he knew branding meant a lot, and it's probably one of Peter Parker's worse weaknesses, always ending up as a public menace. Maybe Miles could do better in that area.

"What? You too good to talk to me?" accused the heckler, pointing at Miles. "Or you're just a scared little punk in your pajamas?" The crowd oohed and broke into a holler. Miles was losing face and he had a fleeting suspicion it might be better to web-swing out of there. Then that alien desire – AMBITION – told him otherwise. He could handle a media firestorm. Couldn't be hard.

He leaped, throwing himself high enough to back flip onto a nearby light post and stick the landing perfectly, entering a crouch. That quieted the crowd as he mustered the words that would cement the foundations to his place in Miami.

"I'm here to be Miami's hero."

He did his best to add bass to his voice, making it sound like he was older and wiser than a 16-year-old kid, making it sound certain and believable.

But the moment those words came out his mouth, he realized it was a big mistake. How cocky did that sound? That wasn't how a Spider-Man was supposed to act, was it? He should have said something along the lines of helping people, taking care of emergencies if he could respond fast enough, or level with people that he was just one hero, but he would swing by when he was near people in need.

Spider-Man's gimmick was being the neighborhood friendly Spider-Man for a reason, not the neighborhood arrogant Spider-Freak.

Consequently, he had no time for correction as the crowd burst from the presence of police. Sirens wailed. Blue and red lights flashed as men and women in uniform rushed to the center of the commotion. The Aussies were long gone by then and Miles waited to see what the cops would do. The guns came out and pointed up at him.

"Whoa, hold it, I'm, you know, a super hero." Miles raised his hands. This was not what he had expected.

"Sir, we have a strict vigilante policy in Florida. I need you to come down here this instance. And no fast movements!" warned a cop as a dozen more arrived to back him up. By then the people dispersed except for a couple young men and women. This would be the perfect time for Miles to go camo when a gut feeling said otherwise. As he watched the stragglers of the previous crowd, they looked at the cops with anger and mischief. Heck, one of them was the heckler of all people.

"Hey, yo, yo, why y'all trying to gang up on Spider-Man for! He wasn't doing anything but doing your jobs better!" said the heckler as the stragglers gathered to back him up. The cops shifted, keeping compose although Miles could tell they were growing uncomfortable with the situation.

"Hey, look, I'll go, but nobody needs to fight over me," said Miles.

"No. You need to get down. Don't web-sling out of here," said the cop. "I mean it."

"Leave that man alone! You only on his ass cause he's black like me!" said the heckler. Another cop turned to dissuade him to leave but the heckler refused and the people backing up the heckler – who now became crazed Spider-Man fans suddenly – started to swell in their ranks, likely emboldened by the commotion to stand against the cops. "Don't y'all know that's our new hero! Miami's Spidey! Miami's Spidey!"

"What is going on?" muttered Miles. He wasn't sure if he should go, hoping the situation calm down without him or stay in case it breaks into something deadly.

Would they attack the cops who had guns drawn? Would the cops shoot them for threatening them while they were on the job? In the back of his head he had a gnawing suspicion this was his fault for not web-slinging away in the first place. If he couldn't camo and slip out undetected in fear of a fight breaking out, maybe…

Like a compressed spring, Miles extended his legs from his crouched position on the light post and hurled himself up. He reached several stories more before motioning his hand for the all-time classic Spider-Man gesture. THWIP! As soon as the web-line connected with the wall of a hotel, both hands snatched down on the web as he swung low and wide around the corner.

To his amazement, the cops didn't lose their head and shoot up the air after his departure. At the same time, the people with the heckler and those spread out watching from afar cheered in hoopla. Someone cranked up their car stereo as Miles passed them by, playing N.W.A's most famous song involving the police.

And all the while, Miles wondered if his fifteen minutes of Miamian fame would cost him his relationship with Florida's police. "Oh man, they're going to hate me."

He could already imagine all corners of the internet taking pot shots with distorted information and unreliable witness accounts splicing the truth to their benefit. He learned a lot being a temp-blogger, and one of the central themes that came up with every story he wrote or read was that the truth was not as important as the drama for some people.

No matter. That's behind him now. As he started running along the rooftops near Ocean Drive, heading south, Miles wondered if his tenure in Miami would turn out as all grandstanding show with little substance. He was already limited in movement since the buildings were low, forcing him to jump gaps, catching some hang time between every couple strides as he soared through the humid air. When he looked down he saw people enjoying their vacation in South Beach, but no signs of his original purpose here.

He redirected west, hopping over whole streets, throwing up a web-line when a tall enough building revealed itself, then returning to rooftop running and jumping. "Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Am I just wasting my time here?"

He came to a stop in a quiet neighborhood that seemed like a distant world far removed from the South Beach festivities. Sighing, Miles lifted his mask up partially to breathe in unfiltered air. It didn't help much. Sweat pooled and stuck in places that the suit wasn't designed to deal with.

Should I call it quits?

"No," said Miles. "At any time and any moment, whoever's kidnapping dudes out here could strike again. I just… I just got to be ready."

He pulled his mask back down and prepared to relaunch when he noticed someone running and tripping over a curb. It was a scraggly looking old man in an attire that he might have rifled through the oldest Army Surplus store to acquire.

Miles hopped to a building near the man and surveyed the way he came and the way he was going. The street was empty. Why was the man running? Miles ran, hopped, and tumbled gracefully through the air, landing on the sidewalk in front of the old man. The guy, with a scruffy beard as gray as ash, stumbled as he came to a stop, yelling from the sudden appearance of the costumed hero. Miles caught him and held him in place.

"Relax, relax, I'm here to help."

The man calmed little as he withered in Miles's grasp, turning his head around every few second to look behind him. "Mwen dwe kouri byen lwen. Se li. Li. Li te vin pou mwen!"

"Whoa, man, I don't speak that language. Haitian – I mean, creole, right? Haitian creole? Can you speak English?"

The man gulped as he calmed a little further. He looked back again and held the gaze. Miles looked with him. He saw cars parked along both sides of the street. A dumpster with graffiti. Buildings that looked like public housing in need of renovation. But nothing important, until they saw a couple girls going south down a different street, their laughter fading into the distance. Miles imagined that wasn't the people he was running from, so what had the old guy so spooked?

"What happened?" asked Miles, slowly releasing the man.

The man shook like wet dog caught in an ice box. He was a diminutive figure made smaller by a crookedness in his back. His hands were scarred, and his fingers looked thick and wrinkled from living a life of hard labor likely. He could be anyone's grandfather. Miles's felt a pang of hurt in his chest as he waited for the man to speak.

"Wait," said Miles. "Let me get you a burger. Would that help?"

"Tonton Macoute," answered the man.

Miles tilted his head. "Uh, what?"

"Tonton Macoute. Tonton Macoute." He clutched Miles by the chest of his costume, shaking him, an effect that Miles allowed under the circumstance that it might help the guy.

In return he gingerly held the man's arms. "Who's Tonton Macoute?"

The man took his hands back and placed them on his head as he looked to be on the verge of crying. "Li pran moun ti gason. Li pran yo. Bondye mwen poukisa gen li vin isit la!"

Behind the mask Miles blinked rapidly as his mind whirled to make sense of what the Haitian man said. An idea came to him. "You're coming with me." He wrapped an arm around the guy's waist and held him close with some strength and the added benefit of spider-stickiness, lifting him off his feet. He made a funny yelping sound as Miles started running with the extra load. It did slow him down since it was awkward to carry a whole human being without web-swinging, but Miles remained undeterred.

After jogging into a busier street closer to Collins Ave, Miles entered a burger restaurant. "Anyone here speaks creole?"

Everyone blinked at him, stunned by the entrance, except for one lady who looked to be on a date raised her hand. "Whew, awesome." He went straight to her, ignoring whatever policies or social etiquettes South Beach restaurants had regarding superheroes and homeless people. Miles needed to know what spooked this guy. A waiter raised a finger and dropped it. He probably got the gist that his input wouldn't be welcomed by a crime fighter on a mission.

Five minutes later, Miles waited with arms crossed, foot tapping on the floor as he listened to police sirens nearing. Of course, they called the cops.

It's that type of night, huh?

Meanwhile, he watched the lady's reaction as she conversed with the man. Minute by minute she had grown frightened ever more. Her eyes had widened, and her lips wobbled as she started to stutter in creole, still questioning the man. The guy she was on a date with looked puzzled, glancing at the Haitians, and then at Miles. Miles kept quiet as the talk in creole concluded and the lady looked like she rather remained ignorant. The tension in Miles's entire body turned him into a human boulder as he waited on the lady's translation.

"He… he can speak English," she said, nodding toward the old man. "But what he saw scared him so bad he forgot."

"That's unfortunate to know, but not the most important part, is it?" The cops came to a screeching halt outside in front of the restaurant. Two. Three. Half a dozen showed up. Some of the patrons gasped. Others started to hide beneath their tables. Miles ignored the commotion inside and out as he looked down at the seated woman. "Who is Tonton Macoute?"

"The Bagmen. The soldiers of Papa Doc, of the old regime half a century ago. I was only a little girl when I heard the tales, but my parents and grandparents feared these people. They would come at night and take you away. But…" she paused as the police yelled for Spider-Man to come out. She glanced at him and he gestured for her to continue. "But what he's saying. It's not the soldiers. They are long gone. This… this is the real thing. The Uncle Bagman. Haiti's Boogeyman."

Miles blinked behind his mask. That made little to no sense. Why would Haiti's Boogeyman be in Miami? And why South Beach of all places? Wouldn't such a person – or entity – exist in Little Haiti then, if it wanted to keep to the theme? Or maybe it was all nonsense. Or maybe not. It could be some nut capturing people for science experiments.

As Miles's thoughts whirred fast and hot, the police made a warning that they were going to charge inside. Miles grunted. "He's an urban legend, right? Can I just search him up?"

This time, the old man who had been too shocked to speak English, spoke up, and said, "He is real. He has come here by voodoo. Evil. Evil voodoo. Only good voodoo can stop him!"

Crazy.

Voodoo wasn't real. But the man made it seem like it existed like air, something that couldn't be felt, but had an effect anyway.

Nonetheless, Miles had no time for further questioning. The cops busted in, guns up. Miles flicked on the camo. He crawled out via ceiling, right above their heads, and reentered the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The google-translated words are not accurate to what Miles or people would actually say in a different language. It's just the simplest way to get the desired effect in reading, and easily searchable for readers. One of the problems I think a hero might have is helping or rescuing people who don't speak English, or even their second language.

**Author's Note:**

> I started this comic because I hated what Marvel Comics are doing to their characters. While I'm glad Miles and favorites are getting some star time on the big screen, their comic books are being ran into the ground. Same has happened to Spider-Gwen. So this is my attempt to see if I can tell better stories.


End file.
